


Where My Heart Belongs

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, Committed Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Love all over the place, M/M, No Angst, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7200044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silent as a ghost, for that is what he had become, John looked up, his gaze fixed on some far off point beyond Sherlock’s shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where My Heart Belongs

**Author's Note:**

> There is too much 'not good' going on in the world right now. I needed something...

When movement on his periphery interrupted his intense examination of the crime scene, the detective rose from his crouched position over the body that lay face down on the grass just beyond the pavement. 

Biting back the sudden knot of panic in his throat, he swept the immediate area with his gaze. Without a word, he strode some distance away to capture the wandering object of his visual search, all too aware of the curious eyes that followed him. 

Hovering close, the detective lowered his head to speak to his wayward companion, long fingers whispering over a pale cheek to gain his attention. 

“Stay with me, yes?” he murmured against his army doctor’s ear. “You mustn’t wander off. I need my conductor of light by my side.”

Silent as a ghost, for that is what he had become, John looked up, his gaze fixed on some far off point beyond Sherlock’s shoulder. 

With a hand at the small of John’s back, Sherlock guided him back to the crime scene. Ignoring the half-dozen pairs of eyes still trained on them, the detective focused his annoyed stare on the man in charge. 

As though summoned by telepathy, Lestrade snapped to attention. He raised his brows, eyes resting for a moment on John’s impassive countenance before returning to the detective. 

“All right, everyone, back to work.”

Sherlock pulled a small notebook and a pencil from John’s jacket pocket, holding them out to the doctor.

“John? I need you to write down a few notes. Please, would you do this for me?”

Sherlock hoped to hear John reply with his customary ‘all right,’ and perhaps a sigh, but expected only silence, which was just what the doctor gave him. John took the objects, staring at them for several moments before holding each in the proper manner.

Lestrade joined them then, his concern evident in the straight line of his mouth and subsequent frown while he continued to watch John.

“Sherlock, everything okay?” Lestrade queried as he stepped into the detective’s personal space.

Sherlock did not make direct eye contact, preferring to watch the DI from the tail of his eye. “Everything is fine, Greg.”

Greg studied him for a moment, his eye roll declaring his disbelief as clearly as if he’d said ‘bollocks’ aloud, then gestured to the body. “Okay, what have you got for me?”

“This is a murder planned to look like a suicide. This man was killed elsewhere and brought here. He, Scott Andrews, according to his identification, is the chief financial officer. All is not well at Coopers International. Interview the business partners again. One of them killed him, probably in a fit of anger over creative accounting.”

“How do you know that?”

Sherlock shot him his best ‘you are an idiot’ glare. “Consulting detective, it’s what I do.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Forget I asked the question.”

“Already deleted.” Sherlock glanced at John, observed his pinched expression and the shadowed, dark blue eyes that glistened too brightly as his doctor attempted to write in the notebook. John’s ‘a bit not good, Sherlock,’ echoed from the depths of his mind palace.

“We’ll send our report to you,” he said as he turned away, toward John. “As soon as we get back to Baker Street, so you’ll be able to make your arrest and close the case by the end of the day.”

Lestrade stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock withdrew from Lestrade’s grasp. “I need to get John out of the cold and damp. Come John.”

Sherlock held John by his arm, guiding him away from Lestrade and the others who had resumed their not so subtle interest. John followed willingly, stumbling once on the uneven ground as they approached the street. When they were a fair distance away, Sherlock paused, took John’s notebook and pen, slipped them into his own pocket while continuing their retreat.

“Okay, John?”

John tugged on his sleeve. Sherlock leaned close to his doctor, immediately aware of the fine tremors skittering along John’s body. “Skin is sore.”

Concerned, but not alarmed at the familiar symptom of John’s tired mind and body, and with a firm grip on his hand, Sherlock set off at a pace he calculated comfortable for John’s shorter gait and his level of exhaustion.

“We’ll find a cab not far from here.” 

The longer they walked, the more awkward John’s gait became until Sherlock had to draw his doctor to his side to steady him. He regretted not accepting Lestrade’s offer to take them home. It would have been the better alternative for John. 

When they reached the main road, the detective secured a cab with a wave of his elegant hand and pushed John inside. Two

minutes into the ride to Baker Street, John’s head bowed to his chest in a most uncomfortable position.

“Drunk or..?”

Sherlock stared at the back of the cabbie’s head, and then his reflection in the mirror, but refused to respond, silently daring the man to repeat himself. He took the insult to John’s dignity personally. 

Excepting the detective’s quick reflexes, a sudden corner turn nearly pitched John to the floor. Sherlock clutched John’s smaller body to his chest, tucking his tousled head beneath his chin. 

“This is not an emergency,” Sherlock snarled to the cabbie. “He won’t vomit on the floor.” For a moment he wished he had his army doctor’s unrepentant proclivity for the profane, but a soft moan redirected his thoughts. “Cheeky bastard,” he muttered, not caring if he was overheard.

“John?” 

“Hmm.”

“All right?”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock tightened his hold and dropped a kiss to the top of his fair head. 

“It won’t be much longer, John.”

John burrowed into his shoulder. “Murrffer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Hum.”

Sherlock gazed at their two hands, his fingers cradling John’s smaller ones. Attuning his ear to the soft, disjointed murmurings breathed against his clavicle, it seemed a perfect counterpoint to his rarely silent thought processes.

Sherlock should have known it would come to this. He’d promised to never again leave John behind, and John had insisted on remaining at his side even when the two day case evolved into four. The symptoms of too little sleep had begun at the end of day two and devolved from there into a less-than-coherent John Watson. He’d drifted off whenever they were stationary, often leaning against Sherlock, and once mid-chew of his dinner.

Tucking those memories securely within the confines of the Watson Room of his Mind Palace and securing the door, Sherlock returned to the present the moment the cab stopped at the kerb in front of 221. 

Passing the fare to the cabbie with an accompanying glare, Sherlock eased out of the car, leaving John slumped against the  
back of the seat. Straightening his great coat, he crouched down, leaning in close to John’s ear. “John, we’re home.”

John stirred, but only just. Sherlock gave him points for trying, then helped him out. “Hold on to me, John.” 

The usually short distance to the entrance seemed twice as long because of John’s frequent knee-buckling, but once they reached the door, Sherlock noticed that the knocker was still askew. Thankfully they would not have to suffer Mycroft’s nose.

Closing the door with his foot, Sherlock let out a breath, quite relieved that the outside world was just that: outside. The silence that greeted them spoke of Mrs. Hudson’s absence. Perhaps she was at the shops.

Easing John’s bum down onto the second of the seventeen stairs, and leaning him against the wall, Sherlock removed John’s coat and his own Belstaff, hanging them haphazardly, one on top of the other.

On one knee, with a finger under his army doctor’s chin, Sherlock lifted his heavy head. “John, I need you to focus so you don’t kill us both with a fall down the stairs.”

John’s pupils slowly dilated as he focused on Sherlock’s face. He leaned forward to mash his mouth against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock returned the kiss, allowing John to nibble at his lip for a bit. John protested, albeit a weak few seconds of a fret, when the detective broke the kiss and lifted him to his feet. 

Sherlock grinned and shook his head. Considering John’s unfocused gaze and the silly, lopsided smile, it was clear the doctor would be no help at all. 

Encouraging an exhausted John Watson to navigate seventeen stairs to their flat was a comedy of errors one unsteady step at a time.

“Step up, John.” 

“I kin do it, Sher...lock. I...siiiit dow..unn now.”

“No, no, no, John, don’t sit down. Keep going. That’s it, up you get.”

John giggled. “Uuuup we g-.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep a deep-throated chuckle from escaping at the ridiculous sing-song narrative John carried on as they climbed. At the bend of the stairs, the detective paused to allow them both to catch their breaths. 

“A few more steps, John. You can do it.”

It was two steps. Just two steps from the landing, John lost his already precarious footing, pulling a surprised Sherlock down with him, and crashed onto his chest with a grunt. The detective caught himself, rolling to the side to avoid landing on top of John. 

When he finally righted himself it was to the sight of his doctor crawling on his hands and knees through the doorway and into the sitting room where he curled up next to the sofa.

Sherlock crouched beside him, resting one palm on the crown of John’s head, and with the other, grasped his shoulder to shake him just enough to provoke a response.

“John.”

“Noooo, go ‘way.”

“Nope. I’m gonna poke you, pardon the expression, if you will, until you open those pretty blue eyes and help me get you on your feet. You can’t sleep on the floor. You’ll be all throbbing and grumpy and furthermore, I do not want to suffer your whinging.”

John cracked open one eye to briefly glare at him, swiping his tongue along his lower lip. The detective knew there was a rebuttal on the way. He just had to wait for it.

“You-ooooo are bee-ing eggsessively and opp...no..un..yes, un..pleasant-ly self-asssss..ertive.” He tapped his pointing finger against Sherlock’s sternum. “Hmmmm, and a big...bully. Ache, never throb.”

Sherlock leaned over John to stare into the one barely open eye, patting John’s cheek to assure him that he understood. 

“Yes, John. If that is how you feel, then I will just have to live with it.”

Even in his exhausted state, his army doctor had the last word.

John batted Sherlock’s hand away. “Murpf.” 

“Exactly. Now, up you get. Case is solved, time for bed.”

Rolling John onto his back was easy. Lifting him to a sitting position was easy, but, for such a small man, John had quite some substance to him when Sherlock lifted him to his feet. He’d carried John on a few occasions, but for only seconds and short distances. Dr. Watson loathed being carried, but this time, there was no protest, simply weary acceptance.

John sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, swaying a bit, but somehow keeping himself upright. As Sherlock watched, the doctor stood, and paused to hold his balance before wobbling his way to the loo.

Sherlock found himself smiling at John’s weaving path toward his destination. Captain Watson tried to command the situation, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. While he waited for John to return, Sherlock quickly undressed, pulling on his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt just before he heard the shuffle of John’s feet.

The doctor appeared, glassy-eyed and unfocused, much like a man who’d had more than his share of drink. Damn the cabbie for his observation, however erroneous. Sherlock reached John in two strides, escorting him to the bed.

“Sit down, John.”

John sat. 

Sherlock wriggled between John’s knees, his heart painfully constricting when red-rimmed eyes awash with unshed tears looked back at him. His own eyes prickled, forcing him to blink away his own tears as John’s arms swaddled his neck. Returning the embrace with arms around John’s torso, Sherlock held his doctor tight against his chest.

A kiss behind John’s ear elicited a shaky intake of breath and a soft moan deep in his throat. 

“Stay. Please.”

“I will, love, I promise.”

John released him, sat like a worn out, tired old teddy bear while Sherlock removed his button-down, shoes and socks. 

“Do you think you can stand once more?”

Without warning, John bolted upward, swayed and crashed face first into Sherlock’s chest.

“Well, that wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Ow.”

More of a chuckler than a giggler, Sherlock giggled anyway as he helped John up and hugged him close for the dozenth time.

“Okay, that’s enough of that for the moment, love. You need to sleep.”

Pressing a kiss to his forehead, Sherlock settled John on the bed, his head on the pillow. Straddling him, the detective unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.

“Bum up, John?”

Too late he realised that John had already slipped over the edge of sleep, but with a bit of effort, he removed the doctor’s jeans, dropping them beside the bed. Drawing the duvet over him, Sherlock paused for a moment to feather the silky, blond hair at his temple. 

“I love you,” he whispered, once again squeezing away the prickling behind his eyes.

Sherlock quickly fetched tea, fairy cakes and John’s laptop, and settled next to John, who slumbered on, blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Sherlock prepared the report for Lestrade and sent it off, perused John’s emails, none of which were of major importance, and finally texted a warning to Mycroft to sod off and stop sending probing, Sherlock-centric emails to John. 

Satisfied that his work was done, Sherlock finished his tea and fairy cakes, tucked away the laptop and lay down beside his doctor, his cheek sharing the edge of the same pillow. John didn’t stir, so, as was his nature, and with child-like eagerness, Sherlock took the opportunity for advanced observation, data gathering, and storage.

In times like these, when John wore his exhaustion like swaddling, Sherlock hovered near, keeping watch. Safe in the detective’s care, John was able to sleep deeply, oblivious to Sherlock’s devoted scrutiny, and finally get the rest he desperately needed.

For some indeterminate time, Sherlock simply observed his doctor, catalogued his soft murmurings, the tiny moans, groans and nearly inaudible whispers as his slumber deepened. Sherlock gathered him close with one arm around his waist and the other cradling his head against his chest. The warmth of John’s body calmed him, his breathing slowed and deepened until he followed his doctor into the depths of repose.

-o-

So accustomed was he to awaken in the aftermath of a horrendous nightmare, his own or John’s, Sherlock smiled at the tranquility he felt as he slowly opened his eyes. He glanced at his still sleeping doctor and then at his watch on the nightstand. They’d slept an uninterrupted five hours. More than enough for himself, but for John, not nearly enough.

Outside their window, London and all that it was, ceased to be. There was only the two of them. And for Sherlock, that was all fine. 

John stirred, reaching out for him as he often did while sleeping, quieting only when Sherlock held him close. 

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

“‘ove you,” John whispered in a sleepy, slurred voice.

Sherlock smiled. “I love you, too. Go back to sleep.”

“Not sleepy-ing.”

“No?”

“Nope,” John replied after a moment’s hesitation and an emphasis on the ‘p.’

“How do you feel?”

“Um, comfortably numb,” he said, his voice whispered and worn.

“To be expected, John. You’ve had just five hours sleep over the last thirty-six. That is something that I will not allow while working on our future cases.”

John tipped his head back, forcing one eye open and finally able to hold his gaze steady. “Oh, you will...not allow-”

“Certainly not.”

John giggled. “You and-”

“Just me, John. I’m taller than you are.”

“True, yeah, but I’m stronger.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Hrmph.”

Sherlock closed his mouth over John’s and kissed him senseless. “You were you saying, my love?” 

John inhaled and exhaled with much difficulty. “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said in a voice just a bit deeper than usual.

“I thought as much.”

With a sigh, John nuzzled into Sherlock’s shoulder and rested the palm of his right hand over the detective’s heart.

“Feeling a bit peckish, John?”

“Uh-uh. A bit dopey, though.”

Sherlock rested his hand over John’s. “More sleep?”

“A bit, I think. Maybe just a few minutes more?”

“Okay.”

“Stay with me?”

Sherlock turned to face John, kissing his temple and resting their foreheads together. “Of course, John.”

The slow, soft breaths against his lips signaled John’s descent into sleep.

“It’s where my heart belongs,” Sherlock whispered against John’s ear while gathering him within his embrace.

Forever secure in the overwhelming certainty that he loved, and was loved by the man he held in his arms, the detective allowed the tiniest of smiles to quirk at his lips. 

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”


End file.
